


Princess America

by relic_amaranth



Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2018 [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Supersoldiers Being Soft, Tea Parties, Tiaras, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 01:46:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: Steve doesn’t embarrass easily. Also, he would never dare act below his station when Princess Hannah has been so gracious to invite him to a ‘Princess-Only Tea Party.’





	Princess America

**Author's Note:**

> So. Soft. If that bothers you then you may want to vacate. This is for one of my squares on the Happy Steve Bingo (‘Caught in a Tea Party Wearing a Tiara’) and it, uh…it’s so soft I kinda wanna cuddle with it. Short and sweet, please enjoy.

 

“Well, don’t _you_ look pretty.”

Steve lifts his head and grins at Bucky. Bucky is leaning in on the doorway, dressed in soft sweatpants and a tank top, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Thank you,” Steve says primly and pushes the silver, red-gemmed tiara back towards the center of his head.

Bucky smirks. “I was talking to Hannah.”

“Thank you!” the smaller crowned regent giggles and pours some imaginary liquid into a plastic tea cup, before holding it up to Bucky in a way that certainly would spill if it held a real drink. “Would you like to join our tea party?”

Bucky blinks, then smiles at her. “Sorry Princess; I’m a little underdressed.”

“It’s okay!” Hannah hops up and goes to dig in her bag until she pulls out a bent, silver spray-painted cardboard circlet with two strips of pink fabric stapled to the back. “All you need is a tiara. This tea party is for princesses only.”

Bucky flashes Steve a bigger smile, but takes the crown with such an air of respect that Steve has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the show of reverence (it wouldn’t do to have Hannah think he was laughing at her). Bucky then puts it on and sits on a pillow across from Steve, on the other side of the floor space serving as a ‘table,’ right next to Hannah.

As she serves him, Steve just watches. Watches the lines in Bucky’s face relax; watches the smile that forms on his face, small and reserved. He memorizes this moment, wants to turn it into paint or ink or graphite, so he can have this instance of peace during the times that are anything but. To remember what makes it all worth it.

“Is my crown crooked or something?” Bucky asks and Steve realizes he’s staring back at him, and Hannah is digging through her backpack for more toys.

“No,” Steve says.

“Then what?”

Steve can only smile. “Nothing. You just look real pretty, Buck.”

Bucky opens his mouth but doesn’t speak at first. Steve tried to phrase it otherwise but his earnestness came through clearly, and that (and the smaller set of ears) bring Bucky up short. So Bucky smirks, but says softly, “Thanks.”

 

Later, when Steve has extricated himself from the flood of gratitude that can only be given from a harried single mother to her impromptu babysitter, he sketches Bucky as he looked earlier: soft, safe, warm. Happy.

“I’d accuse you of rose-colored glasses, but it’s only been a couple of hours,” Bucky says, leaning on the couch behind him.

“Hm?” Steve leans his head back to look at Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t clarify– just looks at Steve like he’s hungry. And suddenly they both have something more important to do.

Once _that_ is taken care of, Steve is lying on his back on the couch and Bucky is draped over him. Steve feels like roses might start blooming from where Bucky is resting his head, he’s so damn content. He’d never say it of course– sometimes he can’t even _look_ at Bucky without being accused of being a ‘big damn sap.’ Not that he’d argue, it’s just the principle of the thing.

“It’s not fair,” Bucky grumbles in his sleepy, pleasured haze. He lifts his head and rests his chin on Steve’s chest. “I don’t know how to draw. I can’t get a picture like that of you.”

“Pretty sure you have a phone,” Steve says, a little lazy in his own relaxation. “Which is filled with pictures of alpacas right now.”

“They’re great,” Bucky defends quickly, then scowls. “Also, it’s not the same.”

Steve’s lips turn up, and he says nothing more. Just stays quiet and strokes his hand up and down Bucky’s back; soft, safe, warm. Happy.

Later, Steve draws a picture of him and Bucky in profile from the bust up, laden with delicate crowns, eyes shut as they lean their foreheads against each other. Bucky stares at it for a long while, then takes it away. A day later Steve finds it again, framed and placed over their bed. It’s right at home. And so is he.


End file.
